The Stockholm Octavo (36 page)

Chapter Fifty-Seven
The Masked Ball, 10
P.M
.

Sources: M. F. L., L. Nordén, various guests

A SHIMMERING GOWN
of copper silk, towering wig adorned with butterflies, lemon yellow gloves, green slippers with copper-colored ribbons—it was by far the finest clothing Master Fredrik had ever worn. Pity that the stakes of the evening caused him to perspire like a sailor in the tropics, and made deep brown patches under his arms. He pressed his arms to his sides, moving only his forearms and wrists in an effort to appear light and gay. Lars, in a royal blue sultan's robe and a turban poked full of jeweled pins, stood by Master Fredrik's side and surveyed the crowded stage. The orchestra members, black Venetian dominoes all, set up their music stands and cleaned their instruments. The floor filled with jesters and milkmaids, fairies and demons, and dozens of black-clad dominoes with round hats and masks. The air grew thick with perfumed wrists and pushed-up breasts, rouged cheeks and lips, ripples of ribald laughter, lace cuffs, polished shoes, masks in place, and the same question on every tongue:
who are you?

“There must be a hundred Venetian dominoes already. I recognize no one,” Lars exclaimed through his false black beard. “What?
He
is here?” He straightened and stared at his brother, Christian, pushing toward him through the crowd. “
He
was not invited!”

“Anyone may buy a ticket, Mr. Nordén, but Christian should go home to his Margot,” Master Fredrik said softly. “This is not the debut he imagines. I will attempt to hasten his departure.” A handsome young lord approached and pinched the generous buttocks of Master Fredrik. “I
beg
your . . . oh, Miss Plomgren. You. Where is Madame? And Miss Bloom?”

“Mr. Nordén,” Anna Maria said, ignoring Master Fredrik and pressing against Lars. “You conjure up the notion of
A Thousand and One Nights
. I should like to be locked in a castle with you now.”

“Where is Madame?” Master Fredrik asked insistently.

Anna Maria looked over her shoulder at Master Fredrik. “Who are you? Copper Mountain?” Master Fredrik raised a heavily lined eyebrow. Anna Maria adjusted Lars's turban. “When the music begins, you will dance with me,” she said. He answered her with a long kiss and ran his hand down the back of her coat, resting it on the curve of her bottom.

“Who are you?” Master Fredrik asked Christian, who had finally made his way over to join them.

Christian pulled his wax mask up to the top of his head and looked down at his magenta cape, hastily trimmed with gold cord. “Margot had made a miter, and I was to be the pope, but I thought it might be taken the wrong way.”

“Astute decision. Detrimental to business, Catholicism,” Master Fredrik said. “I am perplexed at your attendance, Mr. Nordén. Madame intended that your brother represent the atelier.”

“They are my fans. I wished to be present for their debut.” Christian pulled his mantle around him and looked up at the fly loft, a tangle of ropes and painted drops. “They are as light as doves and the same soft color. They appear perfect in their duplication, but they are not copies.” He smiled at his trade secret. “The young ladies will dominate.” His gaze returned to eye level. “Where are the young ladies?” Christian asked, scanning the crowd.

“Young ladies are always late, Mr. Nordén. Sometimes hours and hours,” Master Fredrik said with a too-hearty laugh. He took Christian's arm. “Come. We will look for signs of your fans near the refreshments. And I need to find Miss Bloom.”

The two gentlemen walked arm in arm toward the wings and down the stairs to the foyer. “I confess I am here on a less lofty errand, Master Fredrik,” Christian said. “It was understood by the young ladies that The Uzanne would subsidize their fans for the debut. We have yet to be paid.”

“Mr. Nordén, this is no place for business,” Master Fredrik said. “In fact, it would be far better for business if you went home at once to Mrs. Nordén.” The clock struck half past ten. The first violin sounded the tuning note. “I understand she is expecting.”

Chapter Fifty-Eight
The Masked Ball, 11
P.M
.

Sources: M. F. L., L. Nordén, H. von Essen, masquerade guests, orchestra members incl. Court Trumpeter Örnberg, Conductor Kluth

“I SWEAR, MADAME,
you make a most stunning duke,” Master Fredrik said, giving The Uzanne an overdone curtsy and then trying to take her hand and kiss it. “The transformation is not unhappy in the least.”

“I cannot say the same, Mr. Lind,” she said, pulling her gloved hand away. “Where is Miss Plomgren?”

Christian hurried over, stopped and put his hand to his heart. “Madame.”

“You?” she asked.

“It was my enthusiasm for your brilliant students and their fans, Madame. I was burning to see them take flight.” Christian bowed. “Will the young ladies arrive soon? I have not seen a single one as yet.”

The Uzanne turned to Master Fredrik.

“I have only been looking for you, Madame. I have no interest in girls,” Master Fredrik said.

“I need them! Go and find them and bring them at once,” The Uzanne commanded.

“Madame, regarding the young ladies fans . . . ,” Christian began. “I was hoping . . . we are counting on the payment for . . . Mrs. Nordén and I are . . .”

The Uzanne heard none of this. She reached into the inside pocket of her white brocade jacket for Cassiopeia, but was stopped by the ringed fingers of Master Fredrik.

“You cannot have a fan, Madame, you have come as duke, not duchess.” The Uzanne narrowed her eyes. Master Fredrik flicked open his own fan and waved it swiftly. “I will look in the vestibule for the debutantes,” he said, hoping to find Orpheus. “Shall I bring Miss Bloom as well?” Master Fredrik asked.

“Miss Bloom will not attend. She is indisposed and waiting in the coach.”

Master Fredrik blanched beneath his powder. “Madame,” he said, bowing, and hurried away toward the foyer.

“Miss Plomgren!” The Uzanne called. Anna Maria, flirting with a man in a suit made from playing cards, looked up. She wore no mask. Her cheeks were pink, her lips full and bitten. “Come. Now,” The Uzanne said to her, placing her hand on Anna Maria's arm. “And you must wear your mask.”

“Orpheus!” Master Fredrik's loud voice cried out from the wings.

“Sultan,” Anna Maria said, slipping away from The Uzanne and pulling Lars from the embrace of a sequined shepherdess. “Dance.”

“No. You will stay,” said The Uzanne.

Anna Maria crossed her arms and her eyes narrowed, but just as the heat was reaching her tongue, a murmur traveled through the air of the salon. A hand shot up, pointing to a round window in the far wall, through which could be seen the faces of King Gustav and his Crown equerry, Hans Henric von Essen. They had finished their
supé
in the king's apartments on the floor above and were peering down at the crowd from a window in the private stairway.

“He is coming.” The Uzanne reached inside her jacket, pulling Cassiopeia from the pocket. She did not spread the fan but held her tight, squeezing until the guards warmed to her touch, the ivory taking on the temperature of skin. “We will do this, Miss Plomgren. You and I. We will be heroines.” She slid her white sequined mask in place.

Anna Maria glanced sidelong at The Uzanne with her exquisite suit of men's clothes, her diamond pin, her skin and hair powdered to a ghostly white. “And what of Miss Bloom . . . ?”

The Uzanne kept her focus on the target. “Come. Now.”

Chapter Fifty-Nine
Miss Bloom Is Lost

Sources: J. Bloom, Gullenborg footman

“I'M DAMNED NEAR TO FROZEN
and off for a dram, but you stay put. The Madame does not like it when her bitches run away,” the footman said through the frosty glass. “I will be whipped, and in turn will whip you.” Johanna was huddled under the carriage wrap, teeth chattering, fingers and toes without feeling. She blew on the glass and rubbed herself a new peephole, then watched until the door of the tavern closed behind the footman. It was not hard to force the handle; the footman had been the real bolt. Johanna pulled a musty woolen greatcoat from under the coachman's seat and ran, slipping on the icy cobblestones up to the Opera House door. There were latecomers still arriving.

“Your ticket,” the bewigged usher said.

“It is inside, so I . . .” She tried to push past the man, but he held out his hand in warning. “Madame Uzanne. She is inside with my ticket!”

“And how would I know your Madame in this madhouse? Be gone.”

“Just there, I see my friend Mr. Larsson! There, inside.” She waved frantically.

“Oh I see! It is that sort of madam! Are you costumed as a Sewage Barge girl?” he asked, looking down his nose at her coat. Johanna dropped the coat to the floor, revealing her splendid gown. “That's a cheap trick, you twat. Back to Baggens Street where you belong.”

The usher gripped Johanna's upper arm with one hand and picked up the greatcoat with the other. He shoved both to the cobblestones outside, turned, and closed the door.

Chapter Sixty
The Masked Ball, Near Midnight

Sources: E. L., M. F. L., L. Nordén, Court Trumpeter Örnberg, Conductor Kluth, H. von Essen, F. Pollet, Commander Gedda, numerous masquerade guests

I WAITED FOR AN HOUR
in the vestibule downstairs, but Johanna did not come, so I climbed the grand stairs to the parquet and up onto the stage, hoping she was there instead, tied to The Uzanne. It was a riotous jumble, true Carnivale, even though we were well into Lent. The music was fortissimo, the conversation to match, when there was an audible break and a sudden crush toward the rear of the stage, lifted by a wave of murmurs. King Gustav.

It was then that I spied The Uzanne, a stunning duke all in white. Beside her a handsome prince, the dark plum still unmasked. Christian, draped in magenta cloth, stood off to one side, his hands in a position of pleading or thanksgiving; I could not tell. I shoved my way toward them through the masses and pulled my mask firmly into place.

“What will Gustav's costume be?” Anna Maria said. “I heard he once came with four dancing bears in tow and they shat so much the ball ended early.”

“The actor will come dressed as a domino, for he has set his stage with them,” The Uzanne said, pointing her fan toward the orchestra. “But he will be the most elegant of them all. It will be easy to spot him.”

“Madame, once again, we have not yet been paid . . . ,” Christian began.

The Uzanne cocked her head to one side, as if thrown by this crass mention of money. “They were to debut here tonight. Where are they?” The Uzanne turned away. “I will not pay for something that is of no use to me. You will have to collect from the young ladies.”

“Madame, they believed the fans were a gift and will refuse . . . ,” Christian started, his face dark with anger.

“As anyone would refuse such rudeness.” The Uzanne did not look at him. “Go sit among the spectators, Mr. Nordén.”

“Madame, my wife . . .”

“Then go home to her, Mister Nordén, and prepare for the closing of your shop.”

Christian looked over to where his brother stood, bantering with a countess handing out pastries from a market basket. “Lars,” he cried out. “Help me.” Lars turned, frowned, and shook his head. Christian stood still for a moment, then headed toward the spectator seats, his face ashen, his gaze on the floor.

“Nord—” I started to call, then felt a pinch upon my arm.

“Shhhhh,” Master Fredrik said, then whispered in my ear. “There is no time for comfort now. The hour has come, and we are left alone. Miss Bloom is imprisoned in the coach outside.” I felt my stomach lurch and turned to run out to the square, but he took my arm in a determined grip. “She is safe for now, and this is your Octavo is it not? I will engage The Uzanne. You bite into the plum, but be wary.” He dragged me toward the ladies, gossiping and laughing, as if this were the gayest party of his life.

We monitored the progress of King Gustav as he slowly made his way into the crowd, arm in arm with von Essen. Gustav was laughing and smiling, relaxed. He was dressed as a domino, in a black cape and white mask, a tricornered hat trimmed with white feathers, and pinned to his chest was the Order of Seraphim, a glittering target above his heart. A contra dance spun the revelers round and round, and the crush of people, hot with pleasure and punch, pushed The Uzanne and Anna Maria toward the orchestra. Conversation was impossible, only mime and glance. A stream of subjects ebbed and flowed through the tide of dancers toward their king, and The Uzanne slowly rode the current, coming closer and closer, keeping Anna Maria at her side. Finally we were poised just behind The Uzanne. There was a pause in the music. I nodded to Master Fredrik.

“MADAME UZANNE!” Master Fredrik bellowed from just behind her. “DUKE KARL! HE IS CALLING FOR YOU.” She stopped and waited for several beats, then turned and thwapped Master Fredrik hard on the face with Cassiopeia, raising a welt, angry and red. He put a hand to his cheek, his eyes glistening with tears.

“The duke is elsewhere tonight, you perverse little man,” she hissed. “Did you think I would not know it?”

Master Fredrik put his free hand around her wrist and squeezed until she winced. “NO, MADAME. HE CALLS FOR YOU,” he shouted. “HE AND CARL PECHLIN . . .” There were whispers around them, then the orchestra took up their playing, and the rest of the words were lost. Several dominoes came at once and pulled Master Fredrik roughly aside, toppling his wig and ripping one of his sleeves. He was pushed into the wings, and I lost sight of him altogether. A handsome, unmasked domino helped The Uzanne to a chair despite her protests, thinking she was shaken by the attack. It was Adolph Ribbing; he had not forgotten his promise to assist her.

Anna Maria was left alone.

I pressed into Anna Maria, apologizing gently into the perfume of her hair. She stopped and let me press further; it was not hard to be intimate in the anonymous mass of bodies. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Orpheus,” I said, “I have visited Hades and have a message for you.”

“If the sender is named Captain Magnus Wallander, there is no reply.”

“I know of no one by that name. The message is from someone who ranks far above captain,” I said, taking her soft hand and kissing it.

“Your voice is familiar. Who are you?” she asked again, keeping hold of my hand.

“I have said it already: Orpheus, here to bring you back from damnation.” Her hands were warm, and her fingers found a way to stroke the palm of my hand. “The evil one has kept the gray girl outside, and means to push you into hell instead. There is time to escape, if you come with me.” Anna Maria smiled and her lips were pink against the white of her teeth. She twined her arm through mine and I pressed it to my side when I felt a rough hand on my shoulder.

“The prince has an escort already,” Lars said.

I hesitated for a measure of music. “Then you should mask yourselves and dance away,” I said, releasing her with some reluctance. “Far, and at once.”

Anna Maria stared hard, then made as if to unmask me. Lars caught her hand. “Very unsporting, my plum. Come. The music has started.”

“Say please to me,” she said. “I am sick of being commanded as if I were a dog.”

Lars kissed her tenderly on the lips. “Please, my sweet and juicy plum, honor me with a dance.”

“That's better,” she said. Lars gave a curt nod and escorted her away. Anna Maria glanced back several times at me, and an equal number toward The Uzanne, then disappeared into the dance.

I turned my attentions to the king. Gustav stood in front of the orchestra, observing the dancers, happy in the warmth of his subjects' attentions and the gaiety of the last masked ball. Someone opened a window that sent a chill blast through the room to squeals of protest. Sheet music went flying, but the orchestra continued. There was a crowd of dominoes pressed around Gustav, and The Uzanne now pushed toward him again. She needed to get close enough for Gustav to see her. Gustav would never ignore her. He would send the dominoes away so they might speak tête-à-tête. The Uzanne stood close to him now, stroking Cassiopeia's guard with her thumb, tracing a circle around the rivet. I made my way to her. There was a shout and a burst of laughter from the group around the king that made The Uzanne start. She opened Cassiopeia with great care and whispered to the face of the fan, “Now.” Her face was lit with happiness and expectation; she would soon be a heroine to her class. To her country. To the world. She began the slow and graceful turns of her fan, listening carefully for the words and feeling she brought, sending out air currents that would disarm those in her path. But she heard only music, and the crowd paid no mind. Gustav turned away. “Something is not right,” she said, holding the fan utterly still. The black empty coach stood dark and dead center, the silent manor behind. The sky exactly the same flaming orange sunset fading up to indigo. The verso sequins glittered. She felt the quill, careful not to disturb the contents. All was as it should be. The Uzanne fanned again in the direction of the king, intent on having him look up and see her. It was a movement that was as practiced as breathing for her. “Miss Plomgren! Here!” she called sharply, turning her head. Gustav looked over, but The Uzanne missed his glance.

“Miss Plomgren is dancing,” I said softly.

“I do not believe we are acquainted,” The Uzanne said, closing Cassiopeia.

“Oh, we are acquainted, but we could never be friends.” I was careful not to come too close, knowing her reach and what the fan held. “I am here with a message from a Seer: she claims the stars are not aligned for you. Your fate has been altered.”

“Who are you?” The Uzanne reached for my mask, but I knocked her hand away. She snapped the fan open and leveled it toward me, verso facing up.

“Like love, you cannot see it, but you can feel it,” I said, desperate to distract her, hoping that the king would exit, praying she would not begin the breath along the central stick. Jakob's Church chimed the three-quarter hour. Almost midnight.

She stared down at the fan, its rich blue verso drinking in the light. One crystal bead winked at her from the top of the center stick, the North Star ascendant, Cassiopeia dangling below. She touched the silk, her fingers tracing the needle's tracks where the
W
of the constellation had been. Then she looked up at me, but not with alarm. “She
has
been altered! But so have I. Do you imagine I am afraid of hanging?” she whispered, then snaked out of my reach and into the crowd, pushing toward the king. I heard her calling, “Your Majesty, Your Majesty, here! Here!” The king saw her at last, his face lit with surprise and pleasure. He turned to Fredrik Pollet, his aide-de-camp, and whispered something, then held up his hand in greeting to The Uzanne.

I elbowed my way after her, my cries lost in the din of conversation, music, and laughter. “The Uzanne! Stop her! Stop!” I lunged forward, within arm's reach of her now. But Ribbing had been trailing The Uzanne as a guardian, and he pushed me roughly to the ground. A loud drumbeat sounded. I scrambled to my feet just as the dark cloud of dominoes around the king evaporated, as if on cue. The conductor looked up angrily and scribbled a notation on his sheet music, but the orchestra played on and the dancers swirled in circles within circles on the stage. I saw Gustav take hold of von Essen's arm, and they made their way to a bench against the wall. The Uzanne was but three strides away when a cluster of soldiers formed a tight circle around the king. One of them drew his sword and cried, “Close all the doors and let no one out! The king has been shot!”

There was the clang of cymbals and clash of metal as music stands fell and musicians fled. Screams and cries filled the air. Fantastical creatures raced in all directions. A Cleopatra fainted and was dragged to the wings. Brigade Commander Gedda pulled off his wig, and rushed through the crowd in the ladies gown he wore, sword in hand. A man cried
Fire!
but no one noticed; the panic had already taken hold.

I stood close to The Uzanne now; her look of horror was genuine and her lips were moving, but no words could be heard in the din. I pressed closer. “Pechlin!” she howled. The Uzanne closed Cassiopeia in one beat and grasped the guards. Her tears cut a path down the rice powder on her face. “Oh Henrik, I have failed you.” The king's guard rumbled down the back stairs, and more calls went out to bolt the doors. No one was to leave. Every guest would be searched and questioned. To be caught would close the door to everything. She shut her eyes, and brought the fan to her lips. The Uzanne lowered her arm, flicked Cassiopeia open, and threw her across the stage floor. I heard the snap of sticks underfoot and watched as her face was torn by a sharp red heel. The Uzanne pushed through the crowd to offer false comfort to Gustav, and I rushed to find Johanna.